


Psychic Ramona

by knowyourrights



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, The Heart Rate of a Mouse Series - Anna Green
Genre: 1970s, Alcohol, Angst, Bandom - Freeform, Comedy, Drama, Drugs, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, New York, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Period-Accurate Homophobia, Prostitution, Roommates, Ryan's kind of an asshole, Slow Burn, band au, musicians au, record store, the heart rate of a mouse - Freeform, throam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourrights/pseuds/knowyourrights
Summary: It's New York in 1970, and Ryan is a wannabe rocker with a gift for songwriting and the sense of entitlement to match.When Brendon, some kid from Utah who can't keep his mouth shut, stumbles into his life, nothing will change, right? Right?-(This was massively inspired by The Heart Rate of A Mouse.)





	1. My Conscience Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Heart Rate Of A Mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/330834) by Anna Green. 



> A massive thank you to my beta, Lee, for being an absolute G and making this at least semi-legible:  
> https://thedashdot.livejournal.com/
> 
> -
> 
> Disclaimers:  
> I am fake.  
> This is 115% a work of fiction, and I do not believe that Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie are/have ever been in a romantic relationship. I'm just a hoe for ryden fanfiction.  
> This is also accurate to 2004-2009 era P!ATD, hence the inclusion of characters like Jac.  
> I love Ryan and I'm sure he's a far better person than how I will go on to present him in this.  
> As I said, this is massively inspired by THROAM (call me a knock-off if you want) HOWEVER, I have stopped myself from reading anything past the first volume to avoid entirely copying it, so any similarities between this and the second two volumes are coincidence.  
> Comments are the shit, and I love to receive opinions/criticisms/hatemail.  
> DID YOU GET ALL OF THAT? OKAY COOL LETS GO.

I believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am one of the unluckiest bastards to ever walk the earth. I bet it’s genetic, and that somewhere up the family tree, there was some poor idiot who was constantly getting hit by horse drawn carriages, or getting shit dumped on him from someone’s window. I wonder if I’ll pass it on to my kids too, and that fifty years down the line, George Ryan Ross IV will have the same problem that I have right now.

I watch my knuckles turn white from gripping the rusted metal bars, as I attempt to swing my long, thin legs up onto the those ahead of me, a foot or so below my eye level. Here I am, swinging from a fire escape. I bet my parents would be proud of me. Sure, maybe it’s my fault this time, because I shouldn’t be left alone with a bottle of whiskey, or because I shouldn’t swing my keys on my finger while I walk over grates, but really, do I deserve this?

Yes.

I groan as my ankles collide with the metal, but manage to hook them on anyway, leaving myself suspended in midair, like a giant spider clinging to it’s web, with my spindly limbs and general grossness. I snort to myself as I imagine the poor couples looking out of their windows on a warm summer evening like tonight and catching a glimpse of my delicately balanced form. ‘What’s that, honey?’ the chick would say, pointing at me. ‘I have no idea, sweetheart, it appears to be a twenty-one year old wannabe rocker, hammered out of his mind.’ I would then proceed to remove one hand from the bar to wave at them, and fall to my death.

Oh well, you are what you are.

My head pounds, only a taster of the hangover that will come to plague me tomorrow morning, or later today. What time is it? I ignore the headache. Something about dangling three stories above the streets of New York really puts my aching into perspective.

Persevering, I continue my trek up the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the New Yorkers as I pass each window on the climb up to mine. Most are silent; I assume these are the sane people, who wake up on Monday mornings, wear suits and read the newspaper on the A train travelling to work. Some though, some are fun to listen in on. Night-time television is sounding out of a couple, where I assume people have fallen asleep watching TV, their mouths open, one arm hanging off the couch, the only illumination in the room from the screen. In one I can swear that I hear moans, grunting, panting; sex. I tip my imaginary hat at the closed curtains that hide the scene from me.

Eventually, I reach the window to our apartment, recognizing it by the faded floral curtains that Old Lady Landlord won’t let us take down and the small crack in the top right corner from when I hit it with the neck of my guitar, only a few weeks after we first moved in. I still remember how that guitar felt; every scratch, dent, chipped edge. The damage the window left it didn’t matter anyway, because I dropped it down the stairs two months later, destroying it. It was a good guitar, so I felt pretty shit about that. Even if it wasn’t, I still would have felt shit, because it was one of the few things that I brought here from home, and that means something.

But it’s not important. I don’t let myself think about home, even when I’m drunk.

“Open up!” I call, hitting the window much harder than intended. Oops. Alcohol tends to make me lose control of the force I’m using. I swallow down the urge to vomit, as the I am made aware of the consequences of whiskey. My stomach growls angrily. After a few seconds, I’m greeted with, what some may call, a displeased face on the other side of the glass, scowling at me. I shoot him a winning smile.

“You better have a good fucking excuse for this.” Spencer warns me as he pulls open the window. He’s being pretty pissy with me tonight, and I have to bite back the urge to ask if he’s on his period.

“I have good news and bad news.” I announce, my words coming out slightly slurred, “The bad news is that I dropped my keys down a grate, _but_ , the good news is that I managed to climb all the way up here without dying.”

“You lost our keys again? I’m surprised that no one’s come in and stolen all of our shit, considering half of Manhattan now has access to our apartment.” He whines, but helps tug me through the window anyway. First my skinny legs, then skinny torso, then skinny arms. Skinny, skinny, skinny; I’ve always been like that.

“If they manage to get to where I dropped them then they’ve earned it, y’know?” I sigh, before I’m brutally dropped onto the matted rug below the window in our living room. Groaning, I rub my back, aching from the collision. Spencer doesn’t seem all that remorseful though, standing over me with his arms crossed, looking disappointed. He’s in a pair of white boxers with a red (or orange, it’s hard to tell in the darkness,) tank top. It appears that I’ve woken him up.

“Why didn’t you call me? There’s a payphone like, right outside the bar.”

“I didn’t have any change.” I shrug, carefully sitting up as the couch shifts in and out of my vision several times, the room moving around me. How did he know that I was at the bar? I told him that I was going to the record store when I visited him at work this afternoon. I guess I’m getting predictable. Huh.

Spencer sits down on the edge of the couch, which gives an angry squeak as he scratches his chin. It appears that his stubble is growing into a beard. “You gotta stop doing this, Ryan. You’re completely out of it.” He looks disappointed, like I’m a wild teen and he is a worrying, religious mother.

“I’m not drunk.” I lie, watching the room spin. I’m so very, very drunk.

“Say it.” He demands, raising his eyebrows to challenge me.

“I don’t need to prove my sobriety to you.”

“Say it.” He urges me once more, and I’ve known the kid long enough to know that he won’t give up. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch.

“She sells sheshells by the she- sea! Ah, fuck.” I curse, taking a moment to mentally shake my fist at this bitch and her shells that have fucked me over in times like these.

Spencer doesn’t even say anything, but the glint in his blue eyes makes up for a snide remark, smirk, and eyebrow raise with more to spare.

“What time is it?” I ask, beginning to haul myself off of the floor, grabbing the side of the couch to keep my balance.

Spencer checks his watch. “2:35. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Spencer loves to say shit like that; I think it makes him feel like he’s got his life together. ‘Work tomorrow’ could make him a businessman, with a degree, and a reason to run his hand through his hair and sigh because he’s had a long day and can’t wait to get home to his wife’s homemade casserole. The guy works in a music store, for Christ’s sake.

It’s better than me, though. The unemployed. The unemployable, as my guidance counselor referred to me in high school. I have a tendency of fucking up royally, either because I’m not paying attention, or I just can’t be bothered. I had a few odd jobs, working here and there. A convenience store. A Chinese takeaway. I even got this job as one of those poor fuckers who wanders around with a clipboard, asking people to donate to something or another. I got fired after two days though, after I insinuated that I’d slept with a guy’s mother after he told me to shove my clipboard up my ass. All of my jobs have met similar ends.

“Goodnight, dear!” I call, covering my face with my hands to stop myself from being sick. I can practically hear Spencer’s eye roll before his bedroom door shuts behind him.

“Unh…” I mumble to myself, not bothering to hide my intoxication now that Spencer’s not here to judge me. I stagger over to the window, tugging it shut and drawing the curtains closed, before collapsing onto the couch. It’s this shitty old thing, pale blue and adorned with flat pillows. I swing my feet up onto the glass coffee table, and try to kick off my boots without taking my hand away from my face. When I only manage to hurt my ankles, I slowly lower my hand, squinting to adjust to the darkness of the room once more. It’s a pretty big living room, considering how crummy our apartment is, but most of the space is taken up by furniture that is squashed together. In one corner, Spencer’s drum kit is set up, along with broken amps and a microphone. I keep my guitars in my room, and Jon keeps his basses at his place- wherever that is. I’ve never asked.

Other than that, our record player is across the room from me, next to the TV, and our collection of records and books. Mostly records. Spencer reads everything he can steal from this bookshop on 38th Street, but I’d only ever be able to if it’s a really good book, not that shit they make you read in high school that’s full of things that the author wanted you to know but didn’t want to say. I can’t stand bullshit like that.

Something licks my face.

“Aw, fuck, don’t do that.” I protest, covering up my face once more to shield it from the wet tongue that’s lapping it. When I open my eyes, F.B is panting in front of me, wagging her tail. Maybe she thought I was dead or something when I didn’t come back. Maybe Spencer thought so too.

I scratch the top of her head and she jumps up onto my chest, making me cough. I shift to make room for her. F.B is our illegal dog. Illegal because we aren’t allowed to have a dog in our apartment. She’s some mutt, maybe part pitbull, maybe part beagle- Spencer swears there’s some labrador in her. We found her in this alleyway a few months after we moved to the city, and Spencer tossed her a fry from the shitty fast food meal he was eating. She followed us home, so we just figured that she was ours. Furry Bastard- that’s what we called her. Jon said that we should change it to Furry Bitch when we realized she was female, but Spencer had just scowled and told him that we couldn’t just change her name.

We can barely look after ourselves, so it’s a miracle she’s survived almost four years with us.

“Y’know, if you were human, we’d be great drinking buddies. I bet you’d be so much fun to hang out with.” I tell her, although it comes out a confused mumble. I stare at F.B’s face as she curls up on my chest, tilting her head at me, like she’s confused. Fuck, you and me both, babe.

Spencer was right, I’m _so_ out of it.

I fall asleep watching the stains and marks on the ceiling wiggle and shift, dancing around, hypnotizing me.

 

* * *

“Hey, wake up, Ross.” Spencer shakes my shoulder. I groan, rolling over on the tiny couch to bury my face into the cushions.

“How early is it?” I croak, my mouth dry.

“8:30.”

I groan even louder, reaching for a nonexistent blanket. When I turn around to look at Spencer, I’m blinded by light that’s flooding into the living room. I crane my neck to look through the doorway into the kitchen, where he’s drinking juice from the carton, dressed in a t-shirt and bell bottom jeans. His leather jacket is draped across one of the dining chairs, partially obscured by his muscular figure.

“You know, a growing boy like me needs at least eight hours of sleep every night. It’s cruel to wake me up so early.” I complain, sitting up and pulling off my jacket. As my hand brushes the front of my shirt, it feels sticky. I probably spilt some beer on it last night. Was I even drinking beer? No clue. I tug off the shirt too.

“You’re twenty-two. You’re an adult, even if you have the mental age of a thirteen year old.” Spencer slumps down next to me, pushing a cup of coffee into my hand, which I take reluctantly, knowing that I’m destroying my chances of sneaking in a few more hours of sleep. If I’m going to be physically awake, I might as well be mentally awake.

“That coffee’s being added onto the list of things that you owe me.” Spencer warns.

“I’m going job hunting today.” I lie. I tell a lot of lies. What I will most likely do is sit around, smoking dope, eating shit, promising myself that I’m heading for the stars.

“That’s good.” He nods, “And you gotta get Old Lady Landlord to give you a new keys. She’s going to absolutely fucking destroy you.”

I shrug. “Fair enough. This is the third time.”

“Fourth.” He corrects me, before getting up to put the juice back in the fridge. “I’m off now.”

He grabs his jacket, gives me a nod, pets F.B, and I am left alone. I dump my empty coffee mug in the sink, along with Spencer’s plate, which he didn’t bother to clean up. Eventually, I wander into my bedroom. It’s kind of a mess; the bed unmade, boxes full of junk scattered around the room, pages from magazines and photographs stuck up everywhere. It’s always been like this, ever since we moved here. Everywhere I’ve lived has been like this, and we moved around a hell of a lot. After we dropped out at sixteen, Spencer and I drifted around the country for a while, trying to fit in somewhere. Every room I had looked like this. Maybe this is what home is supposed to feel like. Normal.

I stop to look at myself in the mirror. I look like a fucking mess. My shirtless torso is pale and thin, the slight outline of my ribs showing how gangly I am. My jeans hang low on my hips, the belt unbuckled. My hair is scruffy and unkempt, a little greasy from me not showering often enough, and my face is blotchy and red. I’m growing up to be a picture of beauty.

F.B follows me around the apartment as I walk around, deciding what to do with my time. All of my friends are at work, and I used up the last of my weed, or Spencer’s stolen it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. I stole it from him in the first place.

* * *

Sometimes, all you’ve got to do is take a walk. I’m shocked that so many people are up this early, jogging, or sitting on benches, reading. Central Park is hot, but not as crowded as I would have expected. It’s 9:30, so I suppose most people are at work, supporting their families, paying their rent, and supporting their alcoholism. That sounds nihilistic, but I swear it’s true. I’ve never met a fucker in this city who wasn’t addicted to something. Sometimes it’s cocaine, sometimes cigarettes, sometimes gambling, and occasionally sex. Fuck Vegas, New York is where the sins of the world come together. This is where I fit in. Out of all those cities we tried, New York was the only one that worked. I hated Seattle almost as much as it hated me, Chicago threw us out in the cold of the night, Los Angeles chewed us up and spat us back out. There was Tampa, then Memphis. They both fucked us over within two weeks. Des Moines nearly killed me. Then there was Phoenix. I don’t like to think about Phoenix.

New York, though. Grimy and gross and covered in lights, this is where I can live. It’s not the same as Vegas, which is also covered in neon. In Vegas, unless you’re rich or a rockstar, or both, there’s nothing to do. Die in the desert is the best option. And when you get to the bit that’s all lit up, people are cheesy and fake and you have to get just the right combination of drugs to stop yourself from throwing up. In New York, no one gives a fuck who you are, or what you think you’re doing, and you can watch the lights in peace. I like people not giving a shit about me. It means that I can’t let anyone down.

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ going.” A voice spits at me as I slam into a body. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even see where I was walking. The voice and body belong to this tattooed guy in his late thirties, who’s glaring at me. My head only reaches his chest, and I tower over most people, so he must be twelve feet tall.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” I shrug, taking the few steps to get around him and continue my walk.

“Yeah, you better walk away.” Fuck, the morning hasn’t been kind to him either. “I’ll knock your lights out, you get me?”

Ah, New York. I roll my eyes. “I get you!” I call back, not turning to look at him again. As I continue, I brace myself for a punch in the back of the head. That’s what happens when you can’t keep your mouth shut. A punch in the back of the head.

Nothing.

I guess he got bored and pissed off.

I eventually reach the big lake and by then, I’m sweating like a pig in my denim jacket but refuse to take it off. My jeans weren’t a good choice for the weather either, but the day I wear shorts I’ll ask Spencer to shoot me in the head. That’s how I’ll know that I’ve lost it.

Kids are fucking about, kicking ducks, and hitting each other with these big sticks that have fallen off the trees that surround the lake. They’re probably skipping school. A couple of old people are scowling at them with disapproval. Old people never change. Ten years ago, seventy year olds pursed their lips and narrowed their eyes at me and Spencer as we smashed glass bottles with stones. Those seventy year olds are now dead, probably, and these ones have arrived to judge these kids. On the off chance that I live to that age, I swear that I’d be the worst of them all. I’d be balding, hobbling around with a walking stick, looking like a well planned surprise would kill me, and I’d turn to those kids who won’t be born for another forty years. I’d open my wrinkled, leathery mouth, and I’d say, my voice shaking, ‘you’d better stop that right now, or I’ll have the police on you.’. I crack up at the thought of this, slumping down onto a bench. God, I’d be such an asshole. More so than I already am.

It’s a necessity, though. If you want to grow up to be a rocker, you’ve got to have an old person tell you off. To fight the man, someone has to be the man.

Across the lake, past the kids and the old folks, there’s a mass of bodies, lively and proud and colorful. Protesters. Idiots under the impression that dressing up like walking rainbows and carrying around signs will change anything. I think they’re delusional. When I moved to New York, I could have become a rocker or a hippy. I could have chosen to sing or to protest, and thank God that I chose to sing.

* * *

The car honks at me as I dive across the road, narrowly avoiding getting hit. I’m crossing Times Square, after having left Old Lady Landlord’s building, after she begrudgingly gave me a new set of keys, telling me that it’ll be added onto our rent this month. Just another reason that I need a job.

I chose to walk home, since I don’t have much to do. Being unemployed is boring sometimes. It’s a long fucking walk from Greenwich Village all the way up to East Harlem, where our apartment is, so by now it’s nearly 11. The streets are full, but that’s only because Times Square is always full. This is why I don’t mind the nearly hour and a half long walk. Times Square at night is this colossal melting pot of everything wrong with the world, and it’s so, so right. Stockbrokers who stayed late at the office rush past, trying to hail taxis, and families chatter about the Broadway shows they’ve just seen. But then there’s these big sex shops, with half naked girls standing outside, beckoning you in. And guys in long coats shove small packets of sin into the hands of their nervous patrons behind strip clubs. A woman pulls her daughter towards her to avoid a homeless man. Punks smoke in the faces of housewives. This is where picket fence assholes have to meet the dirt and mess of the city they live in, and pretend that they are not afraid.

“Hey there, baby.” A soft voice says as I pass the entrance to a newsagents. She’s leaning against the window, cigarette in hand. A fur jacket hangs off her thin frame, slipping down and exposing one of her shoulders. A thin black dress hugs her body, contrasted by the stringy blonde hair that falls across her face.

“Hey.” Something about her makes me stop, more so than any of the other hookers that have smiled at me when I walked past them.

“You going anywhere important?” She looks up at me with big doe eyes, pouting.

“Nothing special.” I reply. It’s not like me to hire a prostitute- I’m capable at finding chicks who want to sleep with me for free, thank you very much- but she seems to have drawn me in.

“What’s your name?” She asks, linking my arm in hers and walking with me, moving slowly, so I have the time to watch her. She knows what she’s doing. Beautiful girl like that, I’m probably just one of hundreds of men who have gotten lost in her green eyes, convincing themselves that she liked them.

“Ryan. You?”

“Jac.” I bet it’s not her real name. I don’t mind, though, Jac is a good name to say while you’re fucking. And I wouldn’t be able to call her by her real name even if I knew it, because that’s what her parents called her when she was a little girl. That was her name on Christmas mornings, before she grew up and decided that she would fuck bastards like me for money.

“So, Ryan, how about we have some fun?” She purrs, her voice silky.

I raise my eyebrows. “What kind of fun?”

She stops and turns me so that I’m facing her, placing her hand on my cheek, making me look into her eyes, at her lips, her tongue, when she whispers, “Whatever you like.”

* * *

Jac’s apartment isn’t actually her apartment. It’s a two bedroom place above a liquor store, and one of the bedroom doors, the one she says belongs to her roommate, is locked. I could swear that I hear moans coming from inside.

I suppose that it’s a brothel, but it doesn’t look like one. There’s a kitchen, with magnets on the fridge, and flowers on the table. It’s not the ‘red velvet, remains of cocaine on every surface’ image that I had in my head. The normality of it makes me a little sick.

Jac slides her fur jacket off and straightens out her dress before turning to me. Despite her platforms making her almost as tall as me, there’s something about her that feels so youthful, so wrong.

“How old are you?” I ask. She almost seems taken aback, like no one’s ever asked her that before. Maybe the scumbags she usually brings back here don’t care, or are afraid to find out, because it would fuck them up if they admitted that part of the appeal is how young she looks. That’s the reasoning behind the platforms and the excessive makeup; to allow them to convince themselves that she’s old enough, that they’re not sickos, that they’re not going to hell.

“I’m nineteen.” She tells me, grabbing my hand and leading me into her bedroom. It also looks normal. “Now, what do you have in mind?” She diverts the conversation by pulling at my jacket, letting her lips ghost over my neck as she speaks.

“I fuck you for twenty bucks, and you tell me about yourself.” She stops at that, giving a small surprised laugh.

“You want to know about me?” She looks up at me, genuinely amused.

“Why not? If we’re about to be intimate, don’t I deserve to know something about you. And be honest, too.” I’m not quite sure what I think I’m doing. Testing her to see how much I can turn this fuck into a conversation before she gets annoyed? Maybe I’m just attempting to surprise her, to satisfy my boredom.

“You want my honesty?” Jac is back to speaking against my skin, taking my jacket off for me.

“Mhm.” I mumble, giving a small groan as she kisses my neck.

“Well, in all honesty,” She pulls my shirt over my head and pushes me back, so I’m leaning on the bed, resting back on my forearms, and she’s straddling me. “There’s nothing intimate about this, sweetheart.”

And just like that, she pulls off her dress.

Maybe she’s the one who’s trying to surprise.

Jac talks, and we fuck. She has an older brother, who now lives in Chicago, and she grew up in Portland. She dropped out of high school. She usually gets business from guys in their forties, who want to fuck a girl only a few years older than some of their kids. She once met Lou Reed and he said that she should visit him in his hotel room. She didn’t go. She was too scared. She was seventeen.

I feel exposed as I listen intently to her exploits, only ever speaking to ask a question. Time passes, but I’m not counting. At some point, my hips buck and I let out a cry, my mouth hanging open, words that aren’t words the only thing that fall out. Jac leans over and places a sloppy kiss onto my lips, and then she crawls off, and I’m left lying on her bed, shivering. The paradise is over before it even began.

“That was…” I try to come up with words that will best represent my feelings. “Fuck.”

“Mhm.” She nods, having already pulled a robe around herself, leaning against the headboard, watching me. My breathing is still shaky and uneven.

When I’ve managed to pull myself together, made all of my limbs work again, and tug my clothes back on, I sit back down on her bed, passing my wallet between my hands. Her sheets are faded orange, stained from all of the encounters that have occurred there.

“I guess I pay you now?”

She nods again, and watch her intently. She bites down on her bottom lip, and, fuck, she could be sixteen. I take out twenty bucks, leaving my wallet empty. I guess that means I’m broke, and I spent the last of my precious money on a hooker.

When our hands touch as the money is exchanged, she opens her mouth to say something, hesitating.

“It’s funny that you wanted to talk.” She decides on. It’s not entirely true; I wanted to listen.

I shrug. “It’s weird to fuck in silence.”

She laughs. I am reminded of the nervous laughs that I heard as a teenager, whether it was after I kissed my first girlfriend, or Spencer the first time he was tipsy.

It’s bizarre, because the room feels empty when Jac’s not filling it with her words. It’s just her, me and I guess my conscience makes three.

She walks me to her door, still in her robe, and just as she is about to close the door, strike me off as another satisfied customer, I spin around.

“Is Jac your real name?”

She frowns, looking taken aback. I remind myself of one of the creeps who kills young hookers in alleyways.

“Why is it important?”

“It’s just- I have to know. Does your big brother call you Jac?” I pray that he doesn’t, that Jac is just a name she chose because she thought it had a nice ring to it.

“Yeah, it’s my real name.”

My heart sinks a little.

“Anything else?” Jac asks, leaning against the doorframe.

I pause, looking her up and down. “Goodnight, Jac.”

I am already halfway down the stairs when I hear her yell something in reply, followed by a door closing. It sounds like ‘you too’. I wonder if she said my name; hell- I wonder if she even remembered my name.

I stumble out onto the streets again, lighting a cigarette with still shaking hands before taking a drag. I lean against the window of the liquor store, closing my eyes. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to face Spencer. I feel dirty, but not because of what she might have done to me, more like what I did to her.

* * *

I don’t bother knocking on Spencer’s door when I walk in and flop down on his bed. He’s lying on it, reading a book. I crane my head, to read the spine. Lolita.

“How was your day?” He asks, not bothering to look up. I could be a robber, for all he knows.

“I spent twenty bucks.”

He whistles. “On what?”

The paint is chipping on his ceiling. “A hooker.”

This is what gets his attention. If he thought my drinking was something for him to worry about, this should inspire him to break out the rosary. He looks at me for the first time, and I return the favor.

“Why-”

“I don’t know.” I interrupt him. “I didn’t even realize what was happening, I was just taking off my pants and handing her the money.”

I continue, and his eyes widen at certain points in the story, as I describe the men she fucked, her name, the way she spoke, the way my hands shook all the way home.

“The whole time, I was thinking about all of those creeps, and how they were scumbags and sickos and then I realized somewhere on 9th Avenue that I was one of them. And the way she talked- _fuck_. Sometimes I felt like I was getting fucked, and not the other way around. _I_ felt like a hooker.”

Spencer nods, and I can’t tell if he’s judging me or not. He’s got this permanent pokerface, where you could say just about anything and not get more than an eyebrow raise or sympathetic nod.

“Were you safe?” He eventually asks, and I snort in response.

“What, you don’t trust me to be responsible?”

“That basically sums it up, yeah.”

I punch him on the shoulder in turn, grinning in spite of myself.

“Was it weird?” He says hesitantly, having lowered his book to let it rest open on his chest.

“Huh? She was pretty normal.” I shrug, slightly unsure of what he means.

“Did it feel weird to pay for someone to have sex?” He clarifies.

“You in the business?”

Spencer rolls his eyes and I sit up, leaning back on my elbows like I did on Jac’s bed, before running a hand through my hair.

“It made me feel like I was taking advantage of her, I guess. It _was_ weird.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything, and I don’t blame him. This isn’t the type of thing anyone wants to mention. I payed a girl to have sex with me and I liked it.

The only thing to do is act like this is all normal.


	2. Mildly Enthusiastic

**Chapter 2: Mildly Enthusiastic**

“Hey, how come you don’t have any more copies of  _ Beggars Banquet _ ?” I call out, frustratedly flipping through countless copies of  _ Let It Bleed _ . Great album, but one that I already own.

“People buy them.” Joe calls back, not bothering to look up from his crossword puzzle. It’s just past midday on Friday and the record store is almost deserted, apart from some middle-aged guy skimming through some disco albums that they stock reluctantly. I squint and see the _Jackson 5_ printed on the cover of one. I hope disco dies out soon- and _Jackson 5_ along with it.

“Order more, apparently no one in New York is stocking it, it’s  _ impossible  _ to find.” I complain, giving up and slumping down against the counter. Joe’s slouched behind it, still engrossed in his puzzle.

“How would you know? This is the only place you buy records.” Joe grins, and I roll my eyes. Just because he’s right, doesn’t mean he’s not a dick. “And tell me how you plan on buying it, Ross. Last time I checked you were broke.”

“A staff discount would really help-“

“You know that I couldn’t hire you, even if I wanted to.” Joe interrupts, a hint of sympathy in his voice. I’m good at getting sympathy- or maybe it’s pity. I don’t mind either way.

Joe can’t hire me because he doesn’t own the store. He’s two years younger than me, only sticking it out and working here until his old man bites the dust, and he gets  _ Trohman’s Juke Box _ . Joe’s dad apparently named it after he listened to Bill Haley ten years ago and had a religious experience. Joe says that when the guy dies, he’ll burn every disco record in the place- it won’t be long either, since Mr Trohman had a stroke last year and Spencer reckons he’ll be in the ground by Christmas.

“Here’s a deal,” Joe puts down his magazine. “If you guys ever manage to make a record, then I’ll sell it. That’s me helping you out.”

“That’s you making a profit.” I snort. Like  _ Rubyfruit  _ is ever going to actually get anywhere. We’ll play our shit, yell some nonsense, break up because I break Jon’s bass or some dumb crap like that. No, we’re not trying to appease the masses. Give them their  _ Jackson 5 _ . I want to make music because I like it, not because it creates some bullshit record that people forget about half a year later.

“Watch, by this time next year, I bet some other poor fucker will be begging me to restock  _ Rubyfruit I _ .” Joe drops his magazine to switch the radio station away from the vaguely familiar disco beat that comes on, to which the old guy in the corner gives a displeased squint.

“We’re not Zeppelin, man.” I protest. Why would I bother even making music if I was just going to reuse other bands’ ideas?

Before Joe can give a smartass response, the store bell rings and Jon Walker has made a beeline to the counter. He sits down on an empty stool, loosening his tie, tugging it to free his neck before popping open the top button of his shirt. It’s untucked and free around his waist.

“Hey,” He pushes shaggy brown hair out of dark eyes. Jon’s a weird guy, with this sort of charm that makes everyone want to trust him, even if he was trying to convince them that Canada was in Europe. Sometimes, with the right combination of drugs, he manages to convince me of this.

“Haven’t you got a job to go to?” Joe asks, confused as to why Jon has crashed my unemployment party, which now apparently gathers in his shop.

“I’m not the person you should be asking that to,” Jon nods in my direction, “And I got my break early because- hey, this song sucks, change the station.”

Joe obliges without hesitation, and the music changes once more, this time from  _ Jackson 5 _ ’s  _ ABC _ to  _ Lola _ by  _ The Kinks _ . Everyone in the building is happy with the change, aside from the old guy, who sighs audibly. We turn to him in synchronization, as if to challenge him to give us another begrudging stare.

“My shop, my radio. Sorry pal.” Joe shrugs and shakes his head, not the least bit sorry.

Jon begins lighting a cigarette, still talking with it between his teeth. “Yeah, they let me off early, something about not wanting me around when important clients are there.” I roll my eyes at this. Jon works in one of those big offices on Wall Street, even though he’s a slacker who can’t commit to a task for longer than half an hour. His dad’s one of the hotshots who makes thousands of dollars shouting at people, and so Jon gets a job there. The two of us are equally bad workers, but he is luckier.

“So they just… told you to fuck off, basically.” Joe confirms, looking as stunned about Jon’s employment as I feel.

“Pretty much.” Jon points his cigarette at me, speaking through a cloud of smoke. “Ryan Ross, we have a show tonight, and I swear to God that if you turn up late, I will  _ personally _ destroy your ability to have kids.”

Jokes on him, I didn’t want kids anyway.

“Where is it?” I ask. It’s not our usual Tuesday and Saturday night gig at this bar in the Upper West Side, which is the closest thing I have to structure in my life. A dozen people who almost know the choruses to a few of our songs.

“Queens. This place called  _ White Rabbit _ . We played there one time before, in January. It’s where Spencer ate an entire pretzel soaked in vodka.”

My mind strains to bring back the image of the inside of the bar, a  _ David Bowie _ poster, and the wheelie bins behind it. “And then he threw up in a wheelie bin.”

We all nod, reminiscing about that night, the one I was truly proud to call him my best friend.

“You coming? I ask Joe. He’s the unofficial fourth member of  _ Rubyfruit _ , even though he never plays with us, or even writes music. He’s our own personal groupie/manager hybrid.

“Front row, as always. I’ll be the one with the sign that reads  _ Slut For Spencer _ .” Joe says, before throwing his arms out in front of him, grabbing at the air like he’s at a concert. “ _ Take your shirt off, Ryan! _ ” He shrieks, his faux high voice cracking.

“What are you gonna play?” Joe asks, serving the old guy, who is eyeing me angrily. He’s settled on the  _ Jackson 5 _ album, and I bet it’s only because he gets off on little kids. He looks like a sicko. He brushes past me when he passes to exit the store, and I swear I can feel him trying to elbow me.

“I want to do  _ Palindrome _ , and maybe  _ Dog is Dead _ , since Spencer will want to do a drum solo.” Jon shrugs. He’s not picky about what songs we play and when, as long as we get to play. Not like me; I need to obsess over what of our music we let people here. We can’t play  _ The Cardboard Kid _ in Brooklyn. That’s just the way it has to be. The two then turn to me, because I have the last say. I write the songs. It was me who threw every one of my thoughts at my bedroom wall until something stuck, stained my hands with ink from every pen I’ve snapped in frustration, taken off my skin at every show to give the crowd a good look at the soul that I was bearing for them.

My songs.

“ _ Tidal Wave From Hell _ .” I say definitely, “And some bullshit covers, to keep them entertained. Maybe something by  _ The Who _ .” They like  _ The Who _ in Queens.

Jon flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the counter, before reaching behind it and grabbing an old receipt and a pen. He scribbles out something on it before sliding it over to me.

“Does that say 163 rd St or 168 th Street?” I ask, straining to read the chicken scratch address that I’ve been presented with.

“163 rd .” Jon confirms, squashing his cigarette on the counter before throwing it at the bin in the corner of the shop. He misses, and it hits the side and rolls under a display shelf. “I’ve got to go. 11. Don’t be late, Ross.” He points at me once more before saluting Joe and leaving the store, the keepers bell jingling behind him.

I flip over the address, snorting at the sale on the back of it. “ _ Merry Christmas _ by  _ The Supremes _ . You sell goddamn Christmas albums?”

Joe looks embarrassed. “That was from five years ago, I didn’t even work here.” I’ve clearly ruined his hardcore rock fan status, and I’m sure that if I told him that  _ Rubyfruit  _ couldn’t be associated with a Diana Ross-loving, holiday-season-album-selling, loser like him, he would accept it and hang his head in shame. Joe takes his music very seriously.

“You ever listen to it?” I ask, poking the lion. I should know better, because this situation can only result in getting my arm bitten off.

“No! No way!” Joe snaps.

“Someone’s awfully defensive today.” I tut, and I might as well be snapping my wrist for him.

“Out!” Joe says angrily, pointing me in the direction of the door, where I am expected to follow a long gone Jon. I comply, shoving the receipt into my pocket and sauntering back out onto the streets of New York.

“See you tonight?” I call back at the man who has just kicked me out of his establishment.

“Yes! Now fuck off!” Joe might be angry, but he’ll come around. I have a tendency to make people come around for me. No one can stay mad at me for all that long- they get bored of trying and forgive me.

I get away with a lot of shit.

*** * ***

_ White Rabbit _ looks pretty much the exact same as I remember it. It’s a tacky, run-down bar on the corner of a street. Neon signs advertising various vague promises, like  _ Live music  _ and  _ Cheap drinks _ decorate the outside walls. It’s like a shining beacon of hope and beer on a dim, deserted street. Most of Queens is pretty fucking depressing, in my opinion. Not quite Manhattan, not quite the suburbs, just Queens.

“Are we late?” I ask Spencer, shuffling under the weight of my guitar case. I’m not weak, but it’s a long ass walk from the subway station to  _ White Rabbit _ and watching Spencer walk freely, without a drum kit weighing him down only makes me more tired.

“Only twenty minutes.” Spencer shrugs. That’s a victory for us.

The inside of the bar also radiates the sort of oh-I-think-I’ve-been-here that the outside does. The floor is a black and shiny faux-marble, fluorescent lights bouncing off of it, reflected back onto the walls and faces of patrons. It’s pretty full, for a smaller joint, with sixty or so people milling around, either on the dancefloor in front of the currently empty stage, or chattering at the bar. A speaker is playing some single off the new  _ Free  _ album, and I half-heartedly hum the semi-familiar words, only managing to mumble along with it when it hits the chorus. I spot Jon standing by the stage, charming a redheaded chick, with a beer in hand. As we scoot past the bar, I see Spencer in the corner of my vision, eying a basket of pretzels warily.

Jon breaks into an unexpected smile when he sees us. Not quite the yelling for being late that I was preparing myself for. “Hey, we’re on in ten minutes.”

The girl turns around and gives me a flirtatious smile, eyes roaming up and down my body. I avert my attention from her exposed cleavage up to Jon. “I thought we were twenty minutes late.”

“I told you to be here half an hour early because I knew you’d be late. This is Eva. Eva, Ryan and Spencer.” Jon gestures to us in turn and I try not to be offended about his lateness comment. Eva eyes me hungrily; it has become clear that I am now the object of her desire. Of course I am. She’s moved up from bassist to frontman; it’s her lucky day.

“So you’re the singer?” She asks sweetly, ignoring Spencer completely.

“Yes, he’s the singer. And Spencer drums.” Jon swoops back in, clearly irritated by my unintentional charming of Eva. I can’t help it if chicks like me. Even in small-time bands like our own, girls would always rather pursue the frontman. I’m the singer, guitarist and songwriter. I stand in the middle when we’re on stage, and that’s what makes me so desirable to wannabe-groupies who are just starting out with unknown bands.

“Could you get them some drinks?” He asks her, clearly a chauvinist at heart.

“I’ll have a whiskey.” I say, returning a flirtatious gaze that lasts a split second longer than necessary. I’m good at this.

“Two beers.” Spencer corrects me. He thinks I drink too much, which is true, but I also don’t plan on stopping. It’s not like I have much to motivate me to live until I’m seventy. I open my mouth in protest, but Spencer gives me a stern look and I reluctantly accept.

Eva’s hand brushes against my shoulder as she walks away slowly, fully aware of my eyes watching her ass under her too-short skirt.

“Way to fuck that up for me! I practically had her until you came along and decided to ‘I’m the singer’ your way into her panties.” Jon whines, and Spencer chuckles at his childlike complaining.

“What the hell were you gonna do, sleep with her? You have a girlfriend!” I retort. Jon and Cassie have been together for half a year, and when he isn’t accusing one of us of trying to fuck her, he seems to forget about her existence. She’s a sweet girl, very pretty, fun, and clearly too good for him. I feel bad for her sometimes, since she honestly deserves more than Jon, who cheats on her once a month and tries to ten times that. Cassie is from this rich family in Long Island, and I guess she gets off on slumming it with some poor rockers like us, in an attempt to rebel from her parents. They make a good pair.

“We’re not exclusive.” Jon tries to defend himself, or rather attempts to convince himself that he’s not a douchebag cheater.

“Mm, and is she aware of that?” Spencer asks. I snort as Jon cheerfully flips him off.

“If you think about it, I’m helping you stay loyal to Cassie. Having to take a gorgeous redhead off your hands is just part of the job of helping you with your fidelity.” I argue.

Jon looks unconvinced. “So it has nothing to do with the fact that she has a great ass and would clearly be willing to give you a blowjob?”

I nod. “No correlation whatsoever.”

Just as Eva returns with our beers, handing me mine with a wink, the manger, seated at the bar, mouths at us that it’s time to get onstage. Whilst we’ve been talking, the bouncers have unpacked my guitar and tested the microphones The action onstage has caused the bar’s patrons to assemble in front of it, buzzing with excitement. When we get on, I squint, my eyes adjusting to the lights on us. I sling my guitar around my neck, hearing Jon doing the same with his bass, and Spencer seating himself behind the drum kit. I spot Eva in the front row, and she sends me a grin, sticking her chest out further.

When it come to introductions, and you are aware that no one in the audience gives that much of a shit about your band, it is best to keep it short and sweet.

“Good evening, we are  _ Rubyfruit _ and this song is called  _ Tidal Wave From Hell _ .” I say into the microphone, my voice disconnecting from my body as it fills the bar, much bigger than I could ever hope to be. The art you make is always bigger than you.

We go straight into the song, Spencer’s drumbeat kicking us off into fast, deep basslines and erratic guitar riffs. It’s an angry, brutal song and the lyrics leave a bitter taste on my tongue as they fly out of my mouth. Jon’s voice joins mine, equally ice-cold, and together we taunt the inspiration for the song; this girl I met in LA who was a total bitch. I can’t even remember her name and yet I have immortalized her actions into a song. The audience seems to be enjoying it. I remind myself of a beggar on the street, pleading them to give me the approval and attention that I have grown to need. The desperate want to be loved is the sort of humiliation that almost everyone has, but I have the pleasure of experiencing it in public. I become powerless when I get on stage, and all of my weaknesses are proudly displayed. The song ends, Spencer’s pounding slowing and our riffs trailing off, going higher and higher, vibrating and flickering. Jon and I both jut forward as we play our last sharp notes, and the audience cheers. Mildly enthusiastic. It’s the best we could hope for.

My voice tells the audience that the next song is called  _ Crying/Laughing  _ and the show goes on. I stare at the back wall of the bar as we play, afraid to see the expressions on the faces of the audience. At the back, beside the restroom, two girls are arguing, their shouting drowned out by our music. One of them stamps her foot harshly and sashays over to the bar, the other still hurling insults at her back. I keep scanning my field of vision, eventually finding something to watch. A guy is sitting alone at a small table, half hidden by a column, and oh.

Oh.

He’s watching me intently.

He looks young, probably a little younger than me, and certainly too young to be ordering any drinks here. A mess of dark hair flops over his face, stray strands sticking up at random places. His denim jacket is a little too big for him, clearly bunched up around the elbow to allow him to use his hands to drum absentmindedly on the table. As I step away from the microphone for my guitar solo, I feel impossibly dark eyes following me across the stage, over to where Jon is. Hell, there are at least forty sets of eyes on me, like every show, but I apparently can’t shake these ones. My hand shakes and I skip a note. Fuck. That never happens.

I return to the center and the song continues, but I’m not paying attention anymore. I slip into automatic mode, and I am watching him, and he is watching me. The song continues, and I guess Jon does some trick, because the audience woos, and maybe Spencer throws his drumstick into the air at the end of his solo. I don’t know. I’m not there. There are only two people onstage, the bassist and the drummer, because I am at the back of the bar, sitting with this kid. I’m not sure what happens for the next fifteen minutes, because at some point I announce four other songs, and then they’re over, when I can’t even remember starting them.

We slow to a holt and I am drawn back to the stage, to the people cheering in the front row, and the weight of my guitar.

“Now this next song, I think you’ll all recognize.” I say, giving my most charming smile. This is always the most boring part. I start strumming the opening chords of  _ Pinball Wizard _ , and the crowd goes nuts, because we’re finally playing something they can sing along to. I try to make my tiny voice live up to Roger Daltrey, probably failing miserably. They don’t mind though, shouting along with me, out of key and loud. When I look back up at the kid, who I’ve been having a staring contest with all night, he’s not watching me anymore. Instead he’s looking at a  _ Beatles  _ poster stuck up near the restroom. I can’t help but feel jealous of them, even Ringo.

Why do I even care?

 

Why am I suddenly so desperate for the attention of one kid who couldn’t even be bothered to stand in front of the stage?

*** * ***

Our last song fades out, and the audience is cheering and clapping before I’m even done playing, drowning us out. The ending is messy and uncoordinated. We all give our shouts of ‘thank you!’ as we troop off stage, waving at the cheering crowd. Eva is waiting patiently at the bottom, holding more beers, gushing to congratulate us. A few people wave, or tell us how great  _ Pinball Wizard _ was. No one says shit about any of our original songs.

I’m barely listening as Eva spills out meaningless, probably insincere comments about how well I sing, Jon’s cool trick, Spencer’s drum solo, back to me again. It appears that no one has told her that she doesn’t have to suck up to nobodies like us. It’s not like we have groupies lining up to get us off.

“Sorry, I have to do something.” I interrupt her, not bothering to pay attention to her reply as I shove past people to get to the back of the bar. He’s still sitting there, watching the poster with the same fascination that he did me.

“Hey,” I hold my beer up him, attempting to sound casual.

“I think…” He doesn’t look at me as he replies, “That those signatures are fake.”

It takes me a moment to register what he’s saying. I eventually look up to see that the poster has apparently been signed by all four members- or I suppose, past members.

“Yeah, no shit.” I smile through my confusion. “Why the hell would the Beatles come here ever?”

The kid shrugs. “Pretzels?”

I snort in reply. He eventually looks up at me, and gestures to the seat across from him, offering for me to sit down. When I do, I lean back, taking a sip of my beer, before asking, “So what did you think?”

“Of the pretzels?”

 

I chuckle. “Of the show.”

 

“Oh.” The kid cracks a warm smile. It’s one of those contagious ones, that you can’t help but return, even if you’re on the verge of tears. I get that weird hot feeling in my chest. “You guys are really good, seriously. I liked that one where it’s just the bass and your voice at the end.”

“It’s called  _ Catherine _ .” I tell him. I wrote it back when I was sixteen, about this chick who I tripped acid with. I think her name was actually Lily, but I only remembered that after I had finished writing it.

The kid nods. “Yeah, that one was good. Catherine. Catherine.” He repeats it a few times under his breath, like he’s trying to remember it.

“What about  _ Pinball Wizard _ ?” I ask hesitantly. It appears that I’ve come to judge my success based on how well I can imitate those who came before me. Christ.

“I’m not big on covers. I like it when people write their own songs, y’know.” He shrugs once more, taking a sip of his drink.

“Is that…” I sniff his drink once he returns it to the table. “Is that orange juice?” I send him a puzzled look. Who the hell is drinking orange juice at a bar? At midnight, nonetheless. I can’t smell any vodka.

He blushes profusely, ducking down his head to hide a nervous smile. “Yeah, I’m underage. I barely got in, so I guessed ordering alcohol would be trying my luck.”

I crack up, running my hand through my hair as I watch him blush. When he looks up, I spot playfulness flaring up in his mahogany pupils. Like wood, with lighter shades flecked throughout them. “How old are you, dude?”

 

“Nineteen. Twenty in…” He counts on his fingers, like a child. “Ten months.”

Nineteen. Huh. I try to think back to where I was when I was nineteen, whether I was in bars like this, soft drink in hand, watching unknown bands perform to crowds of forty. It was back before I knew Jon and Joe, before  _ Rubyfruit _ . It was just me and Spencer and F.B against the world. I was working in a movie theatre the summer of my nineteenth birthday, clearing up vomit after scary movies, stealing bags of candy. I got fired after they found a stash of M&Ms in my locker, the peanut ones, because those were Spencer’s favorite. Old Lady Landlord threatened to kick us out after she got noise complaints from the neighbors, because of Spencer’s drum kit. She must have pitied us though, two teenagers on their own, because she let us stay, even though we hardly made rent. That summer, all we ate was candy and chips from this broken vending machine in the subway station three blocks away from our apartment. We were dirt poor for a while, until Spencer scored a job at a stationery shop. From then on, we had all the free birthday cards we could want, because we stole from every establishment we worked at. We still do. Spencer sneaks drum sticks and guitar picks out of the music store he’s at right now.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

“What’s a kid like you doing at a bar at midnight?” I ask him condescending, ready to take full advantage of the orange juice situation.

“I’m not a  _ kid _ , I’m a young adult.” He corrects me, sounding more and more like a kid convincing his parents to let him stay home without a babysitter,

“That’s just code for kid.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“ _ Is  _ _not_.” He says definitively, downing his glass of orange juice with a smug look, before slamming it down like he’s just a chugged a pint of beer. He seems giddy, like he’s drunk without having to drink. A natural drunk.

“That’s a nice guitar.” He redirects the conversation, pointing at my guitar, which is abandoned, leaning up against an amp, still on stage.

“You play?” I find myself intrigued.

“Mm, occasionally.”

Just as I am about to question this kid on his musical knowledge, a delicate hand places itself on my shoulder. I look up to see Eva standing beside me, with a cheesy smile, looking between the kid and I. She seems to have hiked up her skirt more since I last saw her.

“So, how about we have a drink together?” She asks me, flicking a lock of red hair behind her shoulder, hand tightening on my arm in what is intended to be a promising squeeze, but comes off as a threat. I look up at her glossy smile, then back at the goofy kid across the table from me.

“Sorry, I’m a little busy right now.” I decide, losing all interest in a blowjob. Maybe she can get off with Jon, or even Spencer, if Jon has suddenly decided that he has integrity. Eva looks surprised, but quickly covers it up with another smile.

“Are you sure? We could… Talk in the back.” She whispers, tracing lines up and down my neck with a manicured fingernail. Any other day, I would be eagerly jumping up, already unbuckling my belt. Right now though, I find I’m far more interested in the kid in front of me.

“I’m not really in the mood for talking,” I lie. I’m in the mood for talking, just not with her. “But Jon seemed really into you.” I flash her a smile that matches hers in fakeness.

 

“Okay then.” She spits, practically gritting her teeth behind upturned lips. She spins on her heel and flounces off, finding herself downgraded back to bassist.

The kid stares at me in shock once she’s safely on the other side of the bar. “So you just… Turned down an opportunity to get laid?” He says, seeming confused by the combination of words leaving his mouth.

“Pretty much. Some other night.” I shrug. Getting girls is not an issue for me. I guess they’re drawn to my apparent charm, or just the fact that I’m in a band. I’ve never thought that I had too much to offer, but apparently I do. I try not to think about it for too long.

“Nice going, Casanova.” He nods, clearly impressed by my apparent womanizer status. It’s not hard to be a Casanova in the midst of a sexual revolution, when girls who were raised to be housewives realize that they can do whatever, and whoever, they want.

Eventually, the kid holds out a hand across the table. “I’m Brendon. With an e.”

Brendon. It’s not a common name, at least where I grew up. I can’t help but wonder where the kid- Brendon is from. This wondering only prompts the question, what the hell is he doing in New York? I put down my beer and shake his hand, replying. ”I’m Ryan. With an a.”

“Ry! We gotta pack our shit up!” Spencer yells from across the bar, pointing at our gear that has been abandoned, along with my guitar.

“Duty calls.” I give Brendon a shrug.

He raises his empty orange juice glass to me. “See ya, Ryan.”

As I pack away, and for the rest of the night, I find my eyes repeatedly wandering back to this underage kid at the back of the bar. Even when we stumble out and back onto the subway, up to our apartment. Dark rum. Eva on Jon’s lap. F.B yapping at my heels. Tossing her a potato chip. Blonde girl in my bed is called Donna. Or is it Diane? Gin. Brendon across the table from me. Blonde girl is smoking. Rum again. Sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THIS ISN'T DEAD HERE'S ANOTHER CHAPTER


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